They sent me for an MRI scan,

A fact of life for the older man

Whose blood amounts of PSA (*)

Sees him doing what the medics say;

Obliged to wear a tied-behind gown

That makes him look (and feel) a clown,

Before being put in a wheel chair

And trundled in to where

The MRI scanner waits its turn

To probe the body and noisily learn

Its hidden secrets under the skin

That linger (or not!) unseen within.

Strapped to a platform like some boob,

A prisoner in a torpedo tube,

Until the machine has done its work

And release attends with a sudden jerk

With platform and captive slowly ejected

As often as not quite unexpected.

Then the ritual of getting dressed again

Before the wait that faces men

Who endure the process sent their way

When diagnosed with upward PSA(*)

Happily, I was given the "all clear"

And returned home in better cheer

But thought of those less lucky than me

Faced with the news they had the Big C.

(*) Prostate Specific Antigen - a blood analysis that can indicate the presence of cancer in that male organ.

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